by Gar Wilson
Dropping to one knee, James opened fire with the M-16 on full auto. Four 5.56mm slugs ripped into the bearded goon's chest. The impact sent the hood flying into a stack of cardboard containers. He knocked the boxes across the room as his corpse fell.
A .357 round cracked through the air just above James's head. Had the black Phoenix Force recruit not been kneeling, the bullet would have killed him. Calvin James was too busy to realize how close he had come to death.
He continued to blast the enemy gunmen. Three M-16 projectiles smashed into the throat and face of Joystick's closest triggerman. The bodyguard's lower jaw exploded, spewing blood, teeth and bone splinters. A bullet pierced the guy's windpipe and shattered vertebrae.
Before the first bodyguard's corpse hit the floor, James fired a volley of 5.56mm messengers into the upper torso of the brute's partner. The pusher's pet goon suffered an abrupt cardiac arrest caused by two bullets through the heart. The second bodyguard crashed into a water cooler and slid lifeless to the floor.
David McCarter had hit the floor in a fast shoulder roll that carried him to the shelter of a large metal chest. The Briton's battle-honed instincts seemed to guide him into a cover area like a homing pigeon. Combat was McCarter's element, like an eagle stalking prey from the sky.
The two Hispanic hoods managed to grab their weapons on the card table, but they did not live long enough to fire a single shot. McCarter sprayed the pair with lethal Ingram fire. Blood and brains splashed the nearest wall. The card table collapsed when the two corpses fell upon it.
A black man wearing a blue shirt and sunglasses appeared on a catwalk overlooking the storage room. He thrust an M-76 S&W submachine gun in McCarter's direction. Katzenelenbogen, stationed at the doorway, spotted the gunman and instantly raised his Uzi subgun.
The Israeli's weapon hammered out a rapid 3-round burst. Hot 9mm rounds burned through flesh. The killer fell forward into a plywood handrail. It refused to support his weight and broke. The man shrieked as he plunged twelve feet to the concrete below.
A large barrel-chested black man, also clad in a blue shirt, poked a .45-caIiber Star PD pistol around the edge of a stack of crates and fired hastily at Katz. The battle-wise Israeli had already ducked behind the doorframe. The big 230-grain bullet splintered wood, but failed to strike flesh.
McCarter's M-10 spat a trio of rounds at the pistolman. The slugs chewed fragments from the crates that protected the hoodlum, but failed to find their target. The startled man quickly retreated from his position. But not before McCarter got a good look at his face. The black man was bald and wore a pair of dark glasses on the bridge of his nose.
The Briton recalled Jenson's description of Tigershark, the Haitian who appeared to be the leader of the terrorist network in Illinois. Most of the hoods in the warehouse were probably local street trash and junkies. Tigershark was the most likely member to know about the Black Alchemist high command.
"Don't catch a bullet, you bastard," McCarter rasped. "You're worth more to us alive."
* * *
Calvin James had failed to notice Tigershark. He still wanted Joystick. James saw the crown of the pusher's white hat moving above a column of crates. Joystick was trying to work his way to the back exit.
Determined not to let him escape, James broke cover and dashed after the fleeing figure. He immediately regretted his rash decision. A hailstorm of enemy bullets sizzled all around.
A stray slug struck the forestock of the M-16. Black fiberglass burst apart and the projectile rang against the steel barrel beneath. The rifle was torn from James's hands. The SWAT-trained warrior quickly dived to the floor and rolled to the shelter of the crates, his hands numb from the shock of the bullet's impact.
Another black killer, dressed in a blue shirt and dark glasses, tried to cut down Calvin James. Armed with a Skorpion machine pistol, the gunman scrambled to a new position and tried to aim the Czech-made chatterbox at the elusive ex-cop.
The roar of Keio Ohara's Ingram abruptly terminated the terrorist's plan. Three .45 rounds knifed through flesh and muscle between the man's shoulder blades. His spinal cord and thoracic vertebrae were instantly destroyed. He was pitched forward and landed facefirst on the floor. The right lens of his dark glasses crunched on impact, sending shards into his eyes. But he was already dead.
Ohara and Gary Manning had entered through the rear door while the enemy battled with the other members of Phoenix Force. Once again the unprepared terrorists were caught off guard by a surprise attack from an unexpected position. Two gunmen whirled to confront the new threat only to catch a tidal wave of 9mm slugs from Manning's H&K submachine gun.
The Canadian prepared to step over his slain opponents when he saw Tigershark dart into another room. Aware of the Haitian's potential as a source of information, Manning sprinted after him.
A white-trash Chicago hood with curly red hair and a Winchester carbine spotted the Canadian. He raised the buttstock to a shoulder and aimed at Manning's back. Keio Ohara's Ingram snarled and the top of the redhead's skull erupted like Mount Saint Helen when two .45 slugs slammed into his forehead.
Manning reached the door through which Tigershark had fled. Through a window in the door he saw the Haitian dump a pile of file folders into a metal trash can. Tigershark struck a match and dropped it in.
"Bastard's destroying his records," Manning growled as he raised a boot.
The Canadian smashed his foot into the door, breaking the lock. He lunged into the room, MP-5 pointed at the Haitian. Tigershark looked up sharply and automatically reached for the .45 Star in his belt. He changed his mind when he stared into the muzzle of Manning's machine pistol.
"Drop the gun," Manning ordered.
"As you wish, white man," Tigershark replied. slowly easing the pistol from his belt. He dropped it to the floor and kicked it toward Manning.
"Move to the wall," the Canadian instructed. "Spread-eagle. No tricks."
Tigershark obediently moved to the wall and placed his palms flat on the surface. Manning failed to notice the Haitian's right hand was positioned next to a window, his fingers only a few inches from the wooden haft of a long-bladed machete on the sill.
Manning kept his H&K trained on the Haitian as he entered the office. The Canadian placed a foot on the trash can, tipped it over and quickly stomped the flames with his boots.
Suddenly Tigershark whirled from the wall, the machete in his fist. Steel struck steel as the thick blade knocked the H&K from Manning's grasp. With a bestial roar, Tigershark swung the jungle knife in a cross-body stroke.
Manning ducked under the murderous blade and avoided decapitation. The Haitian swung the big knife again. The Canadian dodged again and lashed a foot into Tigershark's gut.
The Haitian doubled over in pain, executing a backhand sweep with the machete as he did so. Manning rapidly stepped forward and chopped the sides of both hands into Tigershark's forearm. The twin shuto stroke jarred the ulnar nerve. The machete fell from numb fingers.
Tigershark was tough. He suddenly swung his left fist into Manning's jaw. The Canadian staggered backward two steps. Tigershark rammed a solid uppercut to his stomach. Manning's hands rose quickly. He clapped the palms against his opponent's ears. Tigershark howled from the pain of at least one ruptured eardrum. Manning immediately punched him in the mouth as hard as he could.
The Haitian fell onto the desk. Manning seized him from behind and pumped a fist into his right kidney. Then he wrapped an arm around the terrorist's throat and pressed a palm against the side of his head.
Manning intended to choke the man just enough to render him unconscious. Tigershark refused to oblige. The Haitian reached overhead and clawed fingers at Manning's eyes. The Canadian sharply turned his face from the gouging attack. He increased pressure with the choke hold and pulled his adversary against the desk.
Tigershark's feet slipped. His body swung sharply to the left, but Manning held his head stationary. Vertebrae crunched as Tigershark's neck was broken
. Manning released the Haitian and allowed Tigershark's corpse to limply fall to the floor.
"Aw, shit," Manning muttered with disgust.
* * *
Joystick's effort to escape proved to be in vain. He had fled behind the crates only to find himself boxed into a corner. The dope dealer's face was coated with sweat. Damp patches stained the white suit under both arms.
Trapped, he clenched his fist around a pearl-handled .22 Derringer. The pretty little handgun was fine for impressing street hookers and dumb junkies, but it was hardly a combat weapon. The dudes who hit the warehouse were packing goddamn machine guns. What good was a derringer against that kind of firepower?
Calvin James appeared behind a column of boxes. Joystick panicked and fired his diminutive weapon without aiming. James ducked behind the last crate. He heard the whine of metal against concrete when the .22 round ricocheted off the floor.
James returned fire with his Colt Commander. A big .45 slug chipped the wall above Joystick's head. The pusher dropped to the floor in a trembling heap.
"Don't waste my ass!" he cried, tossing the derringer. "I give, man! I give!"
"Hands on your head, maggot breath," James ordered as he cautiously advanced, Colt pistol held ready.
"Sure, bro," Joystick replied.
"Don't give me any of that 'brother' jive," James told him. "It's an insult from a jerk like you."
"Look," Joystick said, trembling, "I don't know what's comin' down, but I'll deal. Tell the Man. I'll deal."
"Yeah," James muttered. "Dealing is how you got into this in the first place."
He glanced down at the derringer and contemptuously kicked it across the floor.
"Where'd you find that thing? In a box of Crackerjacks?"
"Cut me a break, man," the pusher urged. "I'll make it worth your while."
"Keep talkin', cesspool mouth. You've just about convinced me to kill you."
Suddenly a bloodied form crashed into the crates, propelled by a burst of 9mm rounds from Katzenelenbogen's Uzi. Two boxes toppled from the stack and fell on James. The corner of a crate struck his wrist and knocked the .45 from his hand.
Calvin James fell into the wall, stunned by the unexpected blow. Joystick took advantage of the distraction. He scrambled to his feet and pulled an object from a hip pocket.
"Let's see what you had for breakfast, nigger," the pusher said, smiling.
He pressed the button of his switchblade and a six-inch blade snapped into view. Light danced along the sharp steel as Joystick advanced.
12
"Oh, shit," James rasped.
Joystick may not have known any more about guns than which end to hold. He was clearly more familiar with knives. The pusher assumed a fighting stance, holding the switchblade low in an underhand grip.
James recognized Joystick's expertise. The dealer was a product of the streets. He knew how to handle a blade. James backed away. Joystick smiled as he quickly shuffled forward. The switchblade suddenly struck like a metal cobra. Steel flashed near James's face.
The ex-SWAT sergeant recoiled from the blade. His left hand streaked inside his jacket. Joystick made another quick feint and lunged his knife at James's midsection.
Sharp steel struck. Cloth ripped and skin split under the razor edge. Joystick cried out in surprise and pain. Blood bubbled from a severed artery and spread quickly over the sleeve of his white suit.
Calvin James had drawn a G-96 "Boot 'n Belt" knife from a sheath attached to his Jackass Leather rig under his right arm. He had caught the pusher off guard with a rapid sideway slash of the five-inch blade.
Joystick jumped back. He stared at the G-96 dagger in James's left fist.
"Son of a bitch," the dealer hissed through clenched teeth.
He moved the switchblade to his left hand and tried to execute a quick stab from an unexpected direction. The trick may have worked if Joystick had been pitted against an inexperienced knife fighter. But Calvin James was a veteran of Chicago's south side.
James dodged the knife and deftly swung the heel of his right palm into the pusher's forearm. The switchblade was deflected toward the floor. James's left arm plunged forward.
The double-edged blade of the G-96 pierced Joystick's right side. It slipped between the ribs at the seventh intercostal space to stab into the pusher's liver. Joystick screamed as James slit him open and yanked the dagger from the terrible wound.
Joystick sunk to his knees. The switchblade fell from his grasp. He groaned in agony and clutched both hands to his ripped torso. James ended his agony by hammering the steel butt of his knife into the top of Joystick's head. The blow cracked the dope dealer's skull, and he fell on his face — dead.
Colonel Katz appeared at the edge of the row of crates. "You feel better now?"
"Better than I'd feel if this bastard had cut me instead," James admitted, wiping the G-96 blade on the slain pusher's white jacket.
"You said you could control your emotions," the Israeli commented.
"I said they wouldn't get in the way of our mission."
"You nearly got yourself killed when you chased after Joystick," Katz declared. "You have no right to risk one-fifth of our strike force because of a personal grudge. That was stupid and careless. If you had been wounded, we would have had to expose ourselves to danger in order to help you. Your life wasn't the only one your rash actions put at stake."
"I guess that didn't occur to me," James confessed. "I just didn't want Joystick to get away."
"None of them could have escaped," said Katz. "We had both exits covered and none of the windows are large enough for a man to climb through. We're professionals, James. We try not to leave anything to chance, and we try to avoid mistakes that could endanger the lives of our teammates."
"I'm sorry, Colonel."
Katz shrugged. "Well, this is the first time you've worked with Phoenix Force. On-the-job training is a bit rough, and God knows we've all made mistakes in the past. Actually you've done very well. Handled yourself in that firefight like a pro. You have plenty of skill and even more courage."
"Thank you, Colonel," James replied, warming to praise from the senior member of Phoenix Force.
"Call me Yakov or Katz," the Israeli told him. "Calling me colonel makes me feel as old as I am."
"None of our blokes got so much as a scratch," McCarter announced smugly as he joined the pair. "The only terrorists who survived are the sentries we took out before we crashed this party."
"Too bad." Katz frowned. "I'd hoped we'd get our hands on their commander for questioning."
"Well," said the Briton, taking a pack of Players from his pocket, "Gary caught up with that bald chap and tried to capture him, but you know how uncooperative terrorists can be. Bastard tried to burn his files. Gary saved what he could."
"I take it there isn't much left," Katz remarked.
"Most of the records are destroyed," McCarter answered, firing a cigarette. "Looks like Tigershark poured lighter fluid over them before setting them on fire."
"We'll just have to take what's left and hope we can find something worthwhile among the ashes," said the Israeli. "Let's pull out before the police decide to investigate tonight's fireworks display."
* * *
They drove to a small motel located at the town limits of Marston, where Rafael was waiting and Howard Jenson, the captive, was still napping from the thorazine injection. After briefing the Cuban about the results of the raid, Phoenix Force examined the remains of the confiscated files.
The material was in French, a language understood by four members of Phoenix Force. Although charred and fragmented, the files still contained considerable information about several chemical sabotage schemes in Illinois.
One of the most welcome bits of information was a list of names of individuals who had put ground glass in cold cream. The people responsible for mutilating Mrs. Simms would not go unpunished. The most important data in the records was the remnants of several orders from a command cen
ter called Cancer Ward.
"Well, we've got a bunch of little fish for sure," Gary Manning remarked. "Are we going to squeeze them all for information?"
"That would take time, which is something we can't afford to waste," Katz replied. "Not with more and more sabotaged goods on the market. We'll turn everything over to Brognola, including Jenson, and let the Feds handle it."
"Great," Encizo muttered. "So we just go home?"
"Too bad we don't have any clues about the location of Cancer Ward," James commented as he checked Jenson's heartbeat and blood pressure.
"Maybe we do," McCarter declared, examining a charred piece of paper.
"What have you got, David?" Keio Ohara asked eagerly.
"A message from Cancer Ward instructing Tigershark to warn his men not to buy any cigarettes manufactured by the Hi-Quality Tobacco Corporation after the twenty-third of this month."
"You figure that's why they're using the code name Cancer Ward?" Encizo asked. "Because they're sabotaging cigarettes?"
"It's possible," Katz said, nodding. "We all know that professionals don't use obvious code names which might reveal the nature of a secret operation. But most terrorists are only semitrained and semiprofessional. They're more apt to make such mistakes."
"The records we found at the warehouse are proof of that," Manning agreed. "Professionals wouldn't keep such evidence unless there was a good reason. Even then, it would have been written in code or reduced to microdot form."
"Perhaps they wrote everything in French because they believed it would be more difficult to translate," Ohara suggested. "You did have trouble with it, yes? Only Calvin understood some of the words the terrorists used."
"That's because it's written in patois," James explained. "The Haitian Creole language, not European French."
"And Tigershark is a Haitian," Encizo declared, snapping his fingers. "Cristo. I should have guessed a connection before."